Page 18 of Unholy Night
I can see by the look on Lyla’s face my words have rearranged her perceived understanding of my nature—and what’s more, there’s no resistance. It is so effortless for her to see me as I am and not as I have been portrayed in nearly every form of story and art since the beginning.
She doesn’t look away as I study her. Nor does she look away as Mandy digs through Santa’s bag.
She looks into me. Deeply. And I feel—I feel something I haven’t ever felt before. I know it only from the taste of it on others.
I feel vulnerable.
To be seen is to be laid bare. Defenseless. At the mercy of another.
What does she think of what she sees?
If only I could read her mind as easily as I can read her soul.
Mandy’s squeals steal both of our attention, and the moment dissipates like smoke. But I cling to what it felt like. What it could mean, and I feel Lyla’s proximity to me like a magnet even as I look at what Mandy is showing us.
“It just keeps going and going,” she says.
“Like Mary Poppins’ bag,” Lyla says with a smile.
Mandy frowns. “Who?”
Lyla laughs. “Never mind. I’m clearly dating myself.”
I snort at that. “I’ve been around since the dawn of time. If anyone is dated it’s me. A rare antique.”
She just shakes her head with a small smile that feels like a secret between us.
“I think I found the list!” Mandy says, relief heavy in her small voice.
“At least the cookie sniffing elf didn’t leave us totally up shit’s creek,” I say.
Lyla shoots me the evil eye, presumably for swearing in front of her daughter, but she’s also trying to hide her laugh so I don’t feel terribly bad over my language choices.
This is hell after all. If you can’t be at least a little naughty here, then what’s the point?
Mandy brings the list to her mother, and Lyla takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and studies it carefully. It’s one single sheet of cream parchment, a scroll bound by a red ribbon. Lyla unties the ribbon and spreads the paper flat as I sit in the chair next to her and Mandy props herself on the foot rest.
“What’s it say?” the child asks, full of excitement and wonder.
It’s been a long time since hell had so much hopeful energy. I feel the shift Mandy and her mother are causing and I breathe it in deeply, gratefully, knowing that when this night is over, I will revisit this moment, this feeling, time and again to try to capture what they’ve shared with me. The fact that they have given me this moment without even knowing it, makes it all the more special.
“It’s magic,” Lyla says softly, her words breathless with each new discovery of this world she never could have imagined existed.
But even I, as jaded as I am, glance over to see what she means. I have a passing curiosity about the list, the elf, the toy shop, Santa’s whole job. It always seemed like an easy job for a lazy immortal. I guess I’m about to find out if that’s true.
The list glows with names written in gold, and as Lyla touches it, the letters rearrange themselves, forming new names with new notes about their deepest wishes.
“What language is this?” Mandy asks. “‘Cuz I can only read the names. That other stuff is all gibberish.”
Lyla hands me the list so I can study it more closely. “Elvish,” I say with a sigh.
“And I assume you can read Elvish?” Lyla asks. “Since you’re older than dirt.”
I cut a sharp glance at her but she just smirks. And oh that smirk, those lips, those sky blue eyes… I feel a jolt in my chest just looking at this woman. “My Elvish is rusty. The only place it’s still spoken is the North Pole. Not a place I frequent.”
Lyla exhales sharply. “Okay, then. How do we do this? Santa has a workshop and elves and reindeer and a sled and some kind of magic that makes it possible to visit all these houses in just one night. What do we have?”
I pause, considering. “I don’t have reindeer, but I do have a litter of Hellhounds that can fly when necessary.”